Chapter Eleven
Cassian
Cassian moved through the next couple of hours as though in a haze, his eyes unfocused and mind adrift in a sea empty of thoughts. Vaguely, he felt a constant heaviness in his chest, but if he ever let himself acknowledge it, even for one second, the heaviness transformed into unbearable pain.
In the First-Class Dining Saloon, Cassian wore a false smile and somehow managed to eat breakfast, though he failed to register the taste of the food.
Somewhere else in the saloon, James must have been waiting on other people, but Cassian couldn’t bring himself to check.
He could only pretend that once James had left his stateroom earlier that morning, the man had simply ceased to exist.
Once breakfast was over, Cassian stood without saying a word.
Beside him, Ethel made a comment about visiting the swimming bath, and Cassian hummed and nodded in response.
Mr. Quinn asked if Cassian needed his help with anything, but Cassian waved him off and wandered out to the First-Class Promenade.
Outside, the scent of the salty sea and the feel of the cool breeze brought Cassian back to himself.
Heartache crashed into him with the force of a violent wave, and he took hold of the railing for support.
Still, though, Cassian almost collapsed on the spot.
Dammit, why had James come to the conclusion that the two of them ought to be spending less time together?
In other circumstances, perhaps Cassian might have agreed.
After all, it had required immense strength on Cassian’s part not to succumb to the constant thrum of desire he felt whenever James was within reach.
If they had been in New York, seeing each other regularly, then Cassian might have seen the benefit in the occasional reprieve from this relentless lust that made every Goddamned inch of him ache for release.
But they weren’t in New York. James was a steward, and they were at sea.
And Cassian had been strong enough to restrain himself so far.
Letting himself caress James’s beautiful cheeks had been nothing, nothing, compared to what he really wanted to do.
He was perfectly capable of continuing to suppress the rest of his wants for the remainder of their time together.
It was maddening to learn that James must have thought him too weak—of mind, of body, of spirit—to keep their friendship chaste for the sake of his engagement to Ethel.
Cassian clutched tighter to the railing, and he clenched his teeth as he realized how little James must have thought of him.
And how little their friendship must have meant to the man, as well.
In such a short time, James had become one of the most important people in Cassian’s life.
Never had Cassian cared about someone else so intensely before.
And yet James was perfectly content to just leave?
James mustn’t have felt the same for him, then.
He mustn’t have cared as fervently, as strongly, as intensely, as—
Cassian shut his eyes as the potential truth in that thought struck him in the chest, shattering his heart.
And the resultant pain was so immense that it stole the breath from his lungs.
For a long moment, Cassian struggled to breathe, struggled to pull in enough oxygen to banish the colorful spots that had started to form in front of his eyes, blocking his vision, but he couldn’t seem to manage it.
He began to wonder if he might perish right then and there, on the promenade of the most illustrious piece of engineering to have ever been made.
But then one more cool breeze blew past, and Cassian was somehow able to release enough of his sorrow and pain to keep himself from suffocating.
After opening his eyes, Cassian still felt faint, enough so that he worried about flopping overboard, and so he staggered backward to find one of the unoccupied lounge chairs. He collapsed into it.
Minutes passed while Cassian fought to keep a neutral expression for passersby, even though he felt as though his whole entire self—everything he was and had been and would ever be—was shattering to pieces.
After a while more, when Cassian finally let himself think back on his and James’s time together, he braced for heartache but found himself momentarily blinded by a flash of rage instead, one that left loathing in its wake.
How unimaginably cruel it was of James to have let Cassian care for him so passionately only to then have behaved as though the moments they’d shared meant nothing and therefore, their friendship must have meant nothing, too.
Thoughtless. James was thoughtless. He was horrible and thoughtless and cruel and so many other wretched things.
If James was content to forget their friendship, to cast such a precious thing into the sea, then Cassian would forget James as well.
He’d concentrate on improving his relationship with Ethel.
He’d cultivate a connection even more magnificent with Ethel.
He had no need for this . . . this strangely intimate friendship with a . . . a servant.
He was Cassian Penn Livingston. And he was owed better than this.
***
Hours later, in the First-Class Lounge, Cassian was having a finger of whiskey with Ethel while she enjoyed a cocktail.
Ethel’s mother was several seats over, chatting with the Astors and Benjamin Guggenheim, and Cassian’s trusted valet Mr. Quinn was across the room, poised to wait on Cassian’s every whim.
Finally, things were back to the way they should have been since the beginning.
Inhaling a cleansing breath, Cassian turned to Ethel on their shared sofa and drank in the sight of her.
He moved his eyes over her face, over her soft but striking cheekbones, over the little swoop of her perfectly shaped nose, and then moved his eyes lower, first lingering on her slender neck and then focusing on the rest of her, inch by inch.
In only a few short months, he’d see her without one of her stunning gowns. Ethel Barrington would be his wife.
Shutting his eyes, Cassian let himself imagine their wedding night, knowing that he’d contain himself well enough not to have a repeat of the now-nearly-forgotten time he’d spent here in the lounge with James, but eager to prove to himself that he still wanted her in that way.
And yet, even as Cassian imagined removing her clothes, even as Cassian imagined her bare breasts and navel and more, he felt nothing.
Not a wisp of want. Not a hint of heat. Concentrating harder, Cassian thought about what bedding her would feel like instead.
He imagined holding her, thrusting into her, bringing himself release, bringing her release, experiencing it together and . . .
Nothing.
Cassian shook his head. He reminded himself that they were surrounded by other people.
Obviously, that was the problem. Besides, intimate relations were only a small, practically infinitesimal part of a marriage anyway.
In fact, he and Ethel had talked at length about the other aspects of marriage only yesterday.
And there were plenty of them. Security, safety, stability.
He’d provide Ethel with those. In return, Ethel would provide him with companionship.
And she was a lovely enough person. She’d make a fine companion for him throughout their lives together.
He could prove it. Right now.
“Ethel, sweetheart,” he began, “I’d love to hear more about your time at the swimming bath this morning. Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Oh. Uhm. Yes, I did.”
“It’s nice there, isn’t it? I found the water to be incredibly pleasant.”
Ethel smiled a bit. “It was.”
Cassian strummed his fingers on his thigh.
“Do you swim well?” he asked. “I can’t remember.”
“Mm-hmm,” she replied with a nod. “I had private lessons.”
“Yes, me too.”
Cassian waited for Ethel to make even a modest attempt at keeping the conversation going, but she only took a sip of her drink.
Cassian frowned. Everything had been so easy with James.
Bantering and flirting and conversing about whatever was on either of their minds—it had felt as natural as breathing.
But maybe that was because he and James had merely been friends.
Or had been becoming friends. Depending on which point of their short-lived friendship he was focusing on.
And friendship wasn’t the same as what he and Ethel were working toward—marriage.
Obviously, interacting with Ethel wasn’t meant to be akin to interacting with a friend.
So, maybe Cassian’s expectations were wrong then.
Maybe they had been wrong for a while now.
For months, really. He’d been letting himself think that something was missing from his relationship with Ethel, but maybe nothing was missing.
Maybe this was simply how marriage was meant to be.
Ruminating on this, Cassian threw back a bit of his whiskey.
He let his gaze wander around the room, from couple to couple.
Most of them were chatting with other people, couples congregating in groups of four or more.
Conversing with Ethel was always easier when others were around.
So, well, it made sense, then, why so many of these other couples looked happy.
But then, Cassian found the Calbots on a sofa on the far end of the room.
Furrowing his brow in curiosity, he watched them for a while.
Back and forth they went with their conversation, smiling and laughing and even playfully touching each other every once in a while.
Both of them were wearing such merry expressions, their eyes alight with happiness, their faces the picture of liveliness.
It was as though they were . . . in love.
Cassian’s face fell. Dear God, that was the thing that was missing from his and Ethel’s relationship, wasn’t it? Love. Romantic love.
But Cassian had never cared about that before. He’d never fantasized about falling in love with a beautiful woman. Even when he’d been read the occasional fairy-tale as a child, he’d never been particularly interested in the lovey parts of the stories. Never had he wanted to fall in love.
Ethel and I can’t seem to find pleasure in each other’s company. And it’s bothering me.
I feel like something is missing.
Cassian’s own previous words echoed in his mind, and with each repetition, the true meaning behind them became clear.
He had wanted love before. Even though he hadn’t seen it.
Even though he hadn’t consciously known it.
Still, some part of him, however small, had recognized that he wanted, needed, even deserved more than what his relationship with Ethel was proving to be.
But there was still time to change it.
Because there had to be.
Scrubbing a hand over the lower half of his face, Cassian thought back on the conversation he’d had with James about love. He tried to remember what James had said romantic love was like. Flying and falling. Some nonsense like that. But what else?
Fluttery, happy feelings. Electrical current or lightning bolts or something whenever you and your romantic companion touched. Feeling comfortable, maybe, like a broken-in shoe.
Surely Cassian Penn Livingston could manage to feel those things.
Slowly, Cassian inched his hand toward Ethel’s. After attempting to steady himself with a long, cleansing breath, he touched his fingers to hers on the sofa cushion.
But nothing happened.
So, instead, he covered her hand with his—a little scandalous, maybe, since they were only engaged and they were in public—and then concentrated on the feel of her hand beneath his.
But there was nothing.
“Cassian, what—”
“Just . . . let me try something.”
After retracting his hand, Cassian scooted closer, intentionally pressing his and Ethel’s thighs together. And then, in one fantastically ungentlemanly show of impropriety, he put his arm around her.
And kissed her.
He kissed her long and hard, right on the corner of her lips.
And then, even though he felt nothing, he kept his nose pressed to her cheek for a moment more, once again waiting for flutters or electrical shocks or other illogical things to happen as his fiancée stayed frozen, the poor woman seemingly in a state of shock.
But there was nothing.
Dear God, there was nothing.
He had kissed her. He had kissed her luscious lips, had felt the softness of her skin, had smelled the sweet smell that was so uniquely her, and still he’d felt nothing.
“Cassian,” Ethel finally whispered, her voice small and strained. “Please.” Her breath shook, and the sound seemed to rattle and reverberate in the very core of Cassian’s soul as he realized what he’d done. “We’re in public.”
Cassian recoiled.
“Oh, God, Ethel, I . . .” But Cassian had no explanation for his behavior. Not one that he could share. Hand trembling, Cassian set his snifter on the floor and then stood. “Forgive me.”
He left the lounge.